


Something.

by DictionaryWrites



Series: Marauders' Era Fic [5]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Difference, Choking, Complicated Relationships, Dom/sub Undertones, Height Differences, Power Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-04
Updated: 2019-01-04
Packaged: 2019-10-04 11:07:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17303501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: It is the Christmas holiday of Severus' seventh year, and he is visiting Malfoy Manor.





	Something.

Outside Malfoy Manor, is it raining.

Severus stands with his palms rested against the cool of the windowsill, looking out over the grounds, over the muddied pathways and lawns. All of Lucius’ birds, which usually roam freely about – the pheasants, the peacocks, the other little game fowl, are all safely roosting in their warm little sheds, and while one or two of the geese might be out on the lake, he can’t see it from the ground floor window.

This will be his final Christmas holiday whilst still enrolled in Hogwarts, and he is most grateful to Lucius and Narcissa for hosting him, but—

He is aware, at all times, of Abraxas’ presence. He is not so disapproving of Severus as once he had been, since Severus went before the Dark Lord this summer past and said he would join the ranks as one of his _Death Eaters_ , his spectres of the night, and yet at no point has Severus felt comfortable in the presence of the old man.

And Lucius is stiff with him.

He disapproves. He is frightened, it seems to Severus, that Severus might be hurt in the ensuing war… He does not trust Lord Voldemort. He has joined because his father joined: he has joined because it is his duty.

So concerned with duty, is Lucius Malfoy.

“ _Severus_ ,” says a voice behind him, from the doorway of the conservatory, and Severus feels himself pause, keeping his gaze on the window. He recognizes Lord Voldemort’s voice, and he focuses on what Occlumency Narcissa had taught him two summers previous, that he has been devoted to ever since: he does not allow his expression to betray his every emotion, and he turns carefully on his heel, looking to the doorway.

Lord Voldemort stands, his shoulders back, his thin lips quirked into an easy smirk. His eyes are tinted red, and Severus is certain he does not imagine the shade of colour in eyes that were once brown…

“You favour black, I see, even in your casual clothes,” he says quietly, his voice low and sonorous and rich in a way that Severus wishes he could emulate. His tone is casual, conversational. Lord Voldemort wears classical battle robes, tight-fitting black fabric that hugs against the shape of his body, against his legs and arms, a looser over robe worn over his shoulders and giving him the expected flow of any wizarding robe.

Most wizards don’t wear anything even remotely similar to trousers, but Severus does too: the tight-fitting black under robe he wears is one unit not dissimilar to loose-hemmed black trousers with a stiff-collared, white blouse; the over robe is a black cassock, buttons running down the length of the chest and from his wrists to his elbows.

“Black suits me, my lord,” Severus says slowly. This is true, he thinks: Lucius and Narcissa have each told him so, and he feels strange and foolish in anything brightly coloured. “My apologies, I didn’t know you were here.”

“No apologies necessary,” Lord Voldemort murmurs, walking forward very gracefully. His clothes do not rustle against one another as he walks, and nor do his boots make the barest sound. Severus had wanted such enchantments for his own clothes since before he even knew Lord Voldemort existed, and yet his own enchantments do not work so entirely as his lord’s, do not so perfectly suppress the susurrations of his clothing, that grate so heavily on Severus’ senses… “I am merely visiting a dear friend. I have long-since known Abraxas.”

Lord Voldemort stands directly before him, now, and Severus doesn’t look at his face, keeping his gaze forward: he is taller than Severus, tall and broad – although not as strapping and strong-chested as Lucius, his muscle less obvious beneath the fabric of his clothes – and Severus’ gaze is in line with his chest, his chin.

Severus scarcely dares to breathe. He draws as best as he can upon his ability to keep himself calm, even when Lord Voldemort’s long, pale fingers touch against the bottom of his chin, and slowly push his head up, that he meet Lord Voldemort’s reddened gaze.

He does not feel it, and yet he knows that he must be making use of some manner of Legilimency, is not so foolish as to believe otherwise. He can only focus on that which he _does_ feel: Lord Voldemort’s thumb playing in slow, easy circles on Severus’ chin, two fingers pressed against the underside of his chin.

Severus has never had someone touch him so casually, and for so long.

Lucius, it is true, has hugged him, has touched his hair – Lucius will even reach out and adjust Severus’ physicality if it does not meet his particular standards, will move his chin or his hips or his shoulders. When Severus was a boy, a few times, Lucius had brushed his hair, or shown him how to wash his hands, clean beneath his nails.

Lily had hugged him, would lean on his shoulder, had once thrown herself playfully into his lap, not understanding why the sudden weight of somebody on top of him had made him flinch and shove her away.

( _He hadn’t understood either.)_

This is different.

The fingers linger. Severus can feel them press slightly against the rhythm of his pulse, can feel how cool the fingers are, and it leaves a prickling, hot sensation that creeps over his skin, beneath his robes.

His mouth is dry.

Neither Lucius nor Lily could ever make him feel like this. Lord Voldemort radiates – radiates and _represents_ – pure power, and Merlin, God, how it makes Severus thrill inside. He feels himself swallow, and immediately Lord Voldemort’s hand shifts, sliding further down: his palm is pressed against Severus’ throat now, and he can feel that slender, aristocratic hand wrap easily about his neck.

“My lord?” Severus asks: the hand squeezes, and Severus inhales through his nose, careful not to do it too sharply. If anyone else touched him like this, he would flinch away, would strike away the hand that touched him…

He doesn’t want to flinch away. The cool chokehold terrifies him, and yet he feels hot beneath his robes, wants to lean _into_ it instead of flee from it.

“Do you trust me, Severus?” Lord Voldemort asks. He pushes his chin up against Severus’ chin, forcing his head up the slightest bit more. Severus stares into his eyes, at the pupils that are just slightly – just subtly – the wrong shape, too angular, too serpentine.

He uses Legilimency. He must.

“I…” he feels himself trail off. “I fear I don’t know, my lord. I don’t know if I trust anybody.”

Lord Voldemort laughs. The sound is low, and it insinuates itself at the very base of Severus’ spine, seeming to curl about his core and _squeeze_ , just as his hand squeezes lightly at Severus’ pale throat, over the stiff collar of his robes.

“What an excellent answer,” he murmurs. “That is what so delights me about you, Severus. You come to me with the truth on that tongue of yours.”

“Yes, my lord,” Severus whispers.

The hand draws away, and Severus is overcome with a sense of indescribable, inescapable loss: he feels as if the path has crumbled away before him, and he is left watching the Dark Lord slink forth where he cannot follow. He says nothing as Lord Voldemort turns upon a silenced heel, gracefully moving from the room – he does not so much as say goodbye, or offer some explanation.

Severus exhales.

He aches, for—

Something.

He knows not what.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hit me up [on Dreamwidth](https://dictionarywrites.dreamwidth.org/2287.html). Requests always open. I also run a [Snape-centric comm](https://snapecomm.dreamwidth.org/)!


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